


Leaves, Like Things of Man (Pete/Carl, Pete/Carl/Drew, light R)

by mresundance



Category: Bandom, RPS, The Libertines
Genre: M/M, Mild Language, Multi, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-29
Updated: 2010-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:46:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mresundance/pseuds/mresundance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The blight that Pete was born for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leaves, Like Things of Man (Pete/Carl, Pete/Carl/Drew, light R)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [http://opium-and-tea.livejournal.com](/gifts?recipient=http%3A%2F%2Fopium-and-tea.livejournal.com).



> I am indebited again to my beta [](http://timeofnoreply.livejournal.com/profile)[**timeofnoreply**](http://timeofnoreply.livejournal.com/) for her swiftness and ever-keen eye.

  
Street sounds and sunlight pour warm and early across them. Sprawled together on the old mattress they rescued from a wheely bin, Peter is lulled by Carl's fingers, very carefully, ringing the rim of his ear over and over.  Carl's voice comes from far away, and in the warmth and comfort, Peter feels like they are altogether submerged in amber whisky and if they left the flat now, they would enter a hot white summer sun and drip a trail of liquor down the sidewalk. Carl says something about Albion and how lovely it was and Peter murmurs yes, yes, of course Carl.

Carl leans in and whispers in his ear and Peter shivers. Carl's bared teeth snag on his ear and Peter's whole body crackles with sensation. He mumbles something to Carl about how he missed this, yes, he missed just the two of them against the whole world but Carl is quiet and intent, pressing Peter down into the mattress and pushing clothes out of his way. Hot brown hands and pink lips and a tumble of black hair. Peter laughs when Carl kisses his belly, tickling one of Peter's sensitive spots. They meander over each other because it's been a while, a lifetime ago it feels like, Peter says as he rubs Carl's back, feeling the notches of his spine through his skin. Carl doesn't say anything, just kisses Peter until they both tremble and pant. Their wetness – pre-cum, kisses, and sweat – begins to bloom and mingle across their shared skins, traveling slick between them and then finally raining onto the mattress. One knotted flesh and they groan and whimper into each other. Peter wants to rip Carl open with his nails, his yellowed and browned torn nails, to leave dark red tracks all down Carl's back as if he could re-claim Carl and keep him.

After they lay nuzzling and sighing into each other. Peter stroking Carl's hair and humming.

– I always loved you first and best, Peter says.

Carl looks at him and says:

– Liar.

– But it's true, Peter protests. It's true, true, true.

The word echoes around the basement flat and rattles the gutters.

Carl turns on his back and sighs.

– I have to go to Basingstoke soon, he says. Then they are silent again.

Peter gets up. It's sunset now and the London sky outside the windows is bloody red. Peter wonders if they spent that long making love. Then he asks Carl why he's in London.

Carl looks at him and says he doesn't know, but he had better not be living here because it would violate his parole. Peter laughs at this.

– Oh Carl. Even if, they will never send me to jail.

– No.

Peter can't read Carl's face in the dark as he says this.

Peter leaves Carl and goes into the kitchen. He needs tea. He puts the kettle on and is rummaging around for sugar when he hears the door knock. Drew is there too and he's just popped by to say 'hallo'. Peter asks him to stay for tea. Carl comes in with disheveled hair and smiles at Drew. They all end up sitting on the lino floor, since there is no table in the kitchen, drinking tea and playing some made-up game with an old deck of cards. Outside, the city purrs through the night, throwing off the distinct and discordant harmonies of taxis, footsteps, pubs, and buses.

The floor is full of emptied tea cups and all three of them are drunk though they haven't had anything. Carl begins to drum on some old pots and pans and Drew taps on the lino and Peter improvises lyrics – mostly clever, stupid little things that make Carl and Drew chuckle until the three of them are tangled up in their laughter on the kitchen floor.

– This is brilliant, Drew says. Peter licks his lips and holds Drew's face in his hands. Kisses him tenderly. Carl watches, smiling drowsily.

– I love you too, Drew, Peter says.

Drew cocks an eyebrow but says nothing.

– And you of course Carl, but I told you that.

Peter takes Carl's wrist, reels him in and kisses him too. Carl murmurs into Peter's kiss, something about Albion and honey. Drew runs his fingers through Peter's hair as he kisses Carl. Peter begins moving between them, like a little bee buzzing between two sweet and succulent flowers. He sucks the sweetness from one's lips and tongue and then bears it to the other, until the three of them are smiling and taste of one another.

– Let's go for a walk, Peter says. The pick themselves up off the floor, avoiding the many emptied tea cups as they go.

London by night is smoky and still warm and women's dresses sparkle and chime and men's shoes are sharp against the pavement. The three of them hold hands together and people don't seem to notice or care. They wander along the Thames for awhile, in the shadow of the London Eye, watching the lights glint off the dark waters and then they're down in Whitechapel and Peter is confused because he thought the walk was longer and they maybe should've taken a taxi to get that far.

– No, no, Drew says, clutching Peter's left hand. Not at all.

They enter a park usually crowded with kids in the daylight and addicts at night, ghost creatures who hunker in the darkness and pick at their graying skin. Now it's empty though and the short whitewashed walls blaze in the moonlight. Their feet crunch on dead leaves. Peter feels like he could absorb everything directly through his pores – the black of Carl's hair, the pearly color of Drew's eyes, the crisp, clean musky scent in the air. Even the brittle splintering leaves falling apart under them.

Carl is laughing and turning to say something when Peter feels a jerk. The air is chill and stinks. He is sticky, gummy, sick. His fingernails are brown and torn.

'Peter,' Wolfe says again right in his ear, breath laced with horse and stale whisky.

'What the fuck?' Peter says, putting his hands over his eyes to shield himself from the too-bright light.

'She's dead, you cunt,' Wolfe says.

'Who?' Peter asks, blinking. His dreams, like the leaves, fall away in fragments.

'Robin.'

Wolfe went away; Peter doesn't know where. Huddled in his blankets, he just feels hollowed out and alone. He gathers them around him, thin and smelling of rot and vomit, as if trying to gather the fragments of his dream and keep them together just a little longer.

\-------------------

** Notes**

For those who remember me, vaguely, I wrote Dirty Pretty Things and Libs fic some time ago, mostly a series where Pete and Carl were retail associates ([Associate Benefits](http://smutriot.livejournal.com/tag/associate%20benefits)) and then another series which was like 'Carl's very secret post Libs diary' where he named his uh, member ([Drowning Me Sorrows](http://smutriot.livejournal.com/tag/drowning%20me%20sorrows)).

The title and summary are lifted from Gerard Manley Hopkin's poem [Spring and Fall](http://www.bartleby.com/122/31.html), which I somehow thought fitting for the subject matter. It's been a goodly while since I wrote Libsfic and I thought it was high time I wrote from Peter's POV, since I've generally been sympathetic to Carl. This fic is still pretty biased though. I am not anti-Peter so much as I have completely given up on him, sadly. Maybe because there's a high chance he's given up on himself, though.


End file.
